


The Little Bird Freed from Her Cage

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Escape, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Secret Identity, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Momolady's Tumblr prompt:</p><p>Sansa disguises herself in order to attend a commoners’ festival in King’s Landing. Sandor recognizes her in the crowd. But the two take the chance to be together for the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momolady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momolady/gifts).



 Long before she arrived in King’s Landing, Sansa’s imagination had been captivated by the fabled Summer Isles Festival of Swans. Instituted the year after the Seven kingdoms confirmed his rule, King Robert ordered the celebration as a diversion for the suffering smallfolk, a symbol of hope for better days ahead. Even then, the city was far too cramped to host tourneys, so instead Robert set aside a large tract of ground just outside the king’s gate along the riverbanks for that purpose.

Her father and mother attended as guests of the king when they were newly betrothed and Lady Catelyn never forgot the beautiful displays. Many a cold night, her mother sat on the edge of her bed and shared tales of the magical festival: the magnificent tall swan ships, so named for their billowing white sails and for their figureheads, most of which depicted birds. As she drifted off to sleep, Sansa could almost feel the warm breeze scented with exotic spices wafting over her bed.

After spending a childhood dreaming of the festival, she was determined she would not miss her opportunity to see the fantastic spectacle in person in spite of her current predicament. It was not only Sansa who eagerly anticipated the event: the ever growing downtrodden and middle class populations of King’s Landing also looked forward to it, giving the often separated classes an opportunity to mingle as they sampled delicacies and watched the famed swan ships parade up the causeway of the Blackwater.

Joffrey had wanted to do away with the tradition, claiming it wasted valuable resources that were better served in the War of the Five Kings. Given his perilous position with the smallfolk, however, Lord Varys and Tyrion had successfully persuaded him to allow the festivities to continue. When the date of the festival was finally announced by the Hand of the king, Sansa eagerly began pleading Shae to take her along with her on the day set aside for the smallfolk who worked in service to the royal house.

“No, my lady, you will not fit in there,” Shae shook her head when Sansa begged to go with her. “You look every bit the highborn. Act like it, too. Besides, you are a prisoner here. If we got caught the queen will have my head.”

“We will not get caught. My sister told me of the many of the secret passageways beneath the castle,” Sansa whispered conspiratorially, the young woman at once scared and secretly exhilarated. “And if I dress as one of Cersei’s handmaids, no one will even notice me. Please Shae, say you will take me with you.”

Sighing, Shae frowned at her. “Even if we could somehow get you out of the castle, it is far too dangerous for you there. The smallfolk do not like Joffrey, and there is talk of rebellion.”

“They will not risk rebelling before the festival,” Sansa took her hands. “I can dress as you do; then I shall fit in, don’t you think?”

Shae looked over the beautiful, hopeful girl with a raised brow. “Well, perhaps; let us see,“ Shae presented her with a simple gown the same style as her daily attire. “Here, put this on.”

The gown was cut in the halter style and far more sheer than any gown Sansa had ever worn. Blushing, Sansa carefully stepped into the sleeveless indigo organza confection  trimmed in peacock feathers along the hem. “I do not think I can bring myself to wear this in public, Shae-it is far too revealing.”

“You will wear the style of the Summer Isles or else I will not allow you to go with me.”

Sansa swallowed her pride and agreed. “As you say.”

“Alright then. Put on your plainest gown and cloak and pack this one carefully. Once we are out of the castle, you will change. When we are there, talk to no one and stay beside us.  If anyone inquires of your origin, you are Lysene, understand?”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me, Shae, I did not mean to sound unappreciative. Truly, this is a lovely gown,” Sansa whispered, delicately tracing her fingers over the garment. “The color is exquisite. Wherever did you get it?”

“Tyrion; where else?” Her onyx eyes twinkled mischievously. “He is the one who will make certain that we will not be discovered. He is also sending Bronn to accompany us should there be any trouble.”

Scandalized, Sansa began trembling in fear. “Why would Tyrion do that? I am as much a prisoner of his as the rest of the Lannisters.”

“Let’s just say he has a soft spot for broken things.”

Sansa was not sure she understood but knew better than to ask for details. “Won’t his sellsword tell on us? The other maids say he drinks in the same tavern as the Hound.”

“No,” Shae answered hastily. “I have secured his silence and I will do the same with the Hound if need be.”

 _How would she do such a thing?_  Sansa did not know what to make of her words. As she silently stood mulling them over, Shae skillfully changed the subject. “There is a feathered masque that matches the gown. Wearing such is the custom at the Festival.”

Gently she placed a peacock feather adornment over Sansa’s face before turning her toward the mirror. “Now then, you look not quite smallfolk but definitely not highborn.”

Gazing at her reflection, Sansa most certainly agreed that she no longer looked like Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter and the betrothed of the king.  In fact, she could pass for the red headed woman widely whispered to be a prostitute who accompanied Lord Baelish around King’s Landing. The change in her appearance thrilled her and so Sansa eagerly agreed to Shae’s terms. “I will meet you and the sellsword tomorrow then, at the stairway alcove next to the kitchens.”

“Don’t be late or we leave without you,” Shae smiled as she tweaked her chin.

* * *

Multicolored silk streamers danced in the breeze over the merchant stalls offering samplings of wines, heady spices and beautiful feathers from a wide assortment of birds to the smallfolk masses. Wide-eyed, Sansa drank up the sights and sounds with relish, laughing and pointing to objects of interest at every turn.

“Many of the men at court speak of a special kind of wood from which bows are made that have a longer range than most others,” Bronn remarked, glancing around at the crowd. “Might be I’ll be needing one of those soon.”

Shae put her hand on her hip an hissed, “Are you going to help me watch out for her or shall I tell Tyrion you would rather shop for weapons?”

“Come now, the Summer Islanders’ celebrate their dead through a means you and I have found most enjoyable in the past,” he patted her on the bottom. “What do you say, girl? Let us sneak off for a bit. I've got coin.”

“Behave yourself,” Shae swatted his hand away. “Sansa will see us. Young though she is, the days of sidestepping her questions are soon coming to an end.”

“The girl don’t care about us,” Bronn whispered in her ear while watching Sansa ogling a group of scantily clad Summer Isle women beckoning the men into a scarlet colored tent. “Innocent as a spring lamb that one, and a beauty at that.”

They had been bickering ever since the left the castle. Sansa quickly learned to drowned them out but now her ears peeled at the sound of the compliment. Leaning back, she struggled to focus on their conversation while appearing nonchalant.

“She is an innocent child and I mean to see she stays that way.”

“I’m not the only man to notice her, you know…”

“Tyrion?” Shae sputtered incredulously. “He would fuck that child? You men-”

“No, no, no,” Bronn shook his head, “the  _Hound_. Seen the way he looks at her, have you?”

A deep heat flushed Sansa’s cheeks at his words; for all her supposed naiveté, the lustful way Sandor Clegane’s eyes followed her had not escaped her notice. But despite his heated gaze, it was no worse than the way the other knights looked at her, save for Loras Tyrell. In fact, Sandor Clegane treated her better than any of the other men at court, she had to admit. He even went against his usual insistence on the truth to cover for her with Joffrey and his effort deeply moved her. When Sandor wasn’t scaring her, Sansa found she actually preferred his company to anyone else she had met, excepting Shae.

Despite being sworn to protect Joffrey, the scarred man had tried to help her and always told her the truth in his own, rough way. As of late, whenever she was in his presence, a warmth spread throughout Sansa’s body and her breath quickened at the sight of him stalking around the castle.  Her reaction both confused her and made her long to explore it further. The very notion embarrassed and thrilled her; never had Sansa been happier that her face was hidden from view.

“Yes, I have noticed,” Shae nodded quietly. “He cares for her, though. That is not the same thing.”

“ _The Hound_?” Bronn laughed long and hard.  “You think he  _cares_  for her? That man only cares for the kill, believe that. He wants to fuck her, nothing more.”

“Think whatever you like, Bronn, but I have made a living learning to read men.”

“Aye that you have, and a good one at that.”

“No more such talk,” Shae handed him a flagon of wine. “She might hear us.”

While Sansa’s mind reeled from their words, she became aware of a large figure weaving in and out of the crowd behind them.  _Has someone recognized me? Is it one of the members of the Kingsguard? No, they would not come to such a place unless Joffrey was here._  Panicking, Sansa returned to her place beside them, nervously wringing her hands.

“Shae, Ser Bronn, did you see someone following us?”

“No, my lady.” Bronn glanced around, his keen eyes scanning the undulating crowd swirling around them.

“My lady, you must relax and enjoy yourself,” Shae patted her hand. “We cannot stay much longer. Bronn and I will not let anything happen to you.”

“Go on, lass, sample the pastries there,” Bronn gestured toward a blue and yellow striped stall. “The lemoncakes are very good, I hear.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite confection. “Lemoncakes? Oh, they are my favorite, and I’ve not had one in ever so long!” 

“There’s a fresh batch over there,” Bronn chuckled. “Eat as many as you like. We’ll wait over by the wine merchant there. If there’s trouble, just holler and my blade is yours.” 

“I will," Sansa squeezed his hand, "and thank you.”

Suddenly a large hand clamped down on her shoulder. “And what do you think you are doing here, girl?” A familiar deep rasp filled her ear. “You’re coming with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa staggered backward in her surprise, nearly upsetting the dessert display. His deep gray eyes glittered as he caught her arm in an iron grip and then set her on her feet, not ungently.

“Were you expecting someone else? The Flower’s Knight, mayhap?” His gaze roamed heatedly over her, the man unabashedly taking in her thin gown and bare skin, the intensity of his expression sending a flush of heat through Sansa’s body.

“No-I…what are you doing here?” Sansa stammered, smoothing down her skirts in an effort to seem unperturbed by his attentions.  Her heart beat madly in her chest at his sudden nearness, and the young woman wondered if he could feel the fluttering of her pulse under his grip.

Sansa noticed that the Hound was not wearing his light armor; instead he was outfitted in leather breeches and a black linen tunic loosened at the neck to accommodate his massively muscled chest and shoulders. _He is every bit as intimidating dressed in regular attire as he is in armor,_ she thought, noticing the curious glances of the passersby. Attempting a small smile, Sansa’s eyes settled on a patch of thick black hair peeking out from the lacings. She felt her cheeks flushed hot once more. _I must act calmly or else risk drawing unwanted attention_. Gently she removed his hand from her wrist. “I am most happy to see you.”

“Bugger that, little bird,” Folding his arms, Sandor grinned wickedly at her. “Chirping now, are you? Spare me your pleasantries, girl.”

Bronn laughed and moved away from them. “Now you’re in for it, lass.”

“No-“ Sansa answered uncertainly, glancing at Shae. “How did you find me?”

“So you are the one asking the questions now, is that the way of it?” Gripping her chin, Sandor turned her face up to him. “I’ll be the one asking questions, lass, and think hard on how you answer me. The king’s betrothed leaves the castle with a whore and a sellsword; did you expect that would escape my notice?”

Sansa dared not look away but neither was she frightened of him. His eyes softened as he stared at her, and Sansa, not knowing what else to do, offered him another small smile. “No, I suppose it would not. I only wanted to see the festival. I had no intention of running away, you must believe me.”

Chuckling darkly, he addressed Shae. “I’ve got her now; you two can go. The Imp’s waiting on you both.”

“Shae!” Sansa whirled around accusingly. “You told the Hound I would be here? How could you betray me?”

Shae gently took Sansa’s chin in her hand. “These are dangerous times in King’s Landing, my lady.” Leaning into Sansa’s neck, she whispered, “Bronn is a killer, true, but the only man with whom I would entirely entrust your safety is the Hound. Tyrion agreed with me and sent him to you.”

Frowning, she glanced up at Sandor, who sat passively fingering the handle on his short sword as he stared at her. Bronn described the weapons available at the festival to him at length, and occasionally the Hound grunted out a reply, the man never taking his eyes off her.

“But the Hound _hates_ Tyrion!” Sansa hissed, the young woman on the verge of tears. “He will tell Joffrey, just as he told Cersei of my flowering-“

“No, child, no,” Shae shook her head. “You misunderstood him that day. He protected you and make no mistake. You would have been killed if one of the maids had told the queen you tried to hide your bedding. Now listen to me: Bronn and I must go back to the castle now. You stay with Clegane. He will see you safe.”

“But-“ Sansa pouted.

“But nothing, child,” Shae whispered. “No more of this now. I want you to trust me and do as I say.”

“I do trust you.”

“Sansa, please, you must listen to me. The Hound cares for you- can you not see that in the way he looks at you?” Shae brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “No matter how rough he is, he is better to you than any other man at court and in a place like this that means more than you may realize at your tender age.”

Confused, Sansa slowly nodded.

“Do whatever he asks of you, understand? And try to show him a bit of kindness; it would do him good.”

“But he is always so hateful,” Sansa petulantly replied, looking the man over as she spoke. Briefly it came to her mind that with his long black hair, hooked nose, sharp angular features and deep gray eyes that he bore the look of the north, of _home_. _Perhaps that is why I have never feared him as I ought; he reminds me of Father, of Jory and Arya_. Suddenly a wave of affection swelled within her heart for him, knowing as she did that he did not share the pleasant childhood that she had in her beloved north.

Shae’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. “If someone only treated you as a dog, do you think you would not grow mean and ill tempered?”

In the short time she spent in King’s Landing, she had grown sick of people treating her as though she was stupid; she could not imagine what Sandor had been through during his many years of service.“Yes, I suppose,” Sansa agreed.

“Do as he says. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Alright then,” Shae kissed her on each cheek. “And child, do not be afraid of him solely because of his appearance.”

For all of the Hound’s snarling, Sansa was not afraid of him, not really. “No, I won’t.”

“Good, I am glad to hear it. Goodbye, Sansa.”

“Goodbye, Shae.”

For a brief moment, her handmaid smiled sadly over her shoulder and then hurried away. “You kids have fun,” Bronn winked before following Shae toward the gates.

 _Shae looks as though this is the last time we will see each other,_ she thought sorrowfully. When Sansa turned around, she ran into the wall that was Sandor Clegane’s chest. “Oh! Forgive me. I seem to have lost all of my social graces today, my lord.”

“Aye you have at that. What happened to the graceful little bird? Your prune of a septa would gape if she saw you now.” Sandor mocked, setting her aright. “Decide you’ll spend the day with the ugly dog after all?”

“Do I have a choice?” Sansa grumbled, angrily brushing down her skirts, her cheeks ablaze with embarrassment.

Sandor threw back his head and roared out a laugh, the frightening noise drawing the attention of the people passing by and the vendors alike. Mortified, Sansa’s eyes filled with tears. Just as she turned to run away, Sandor reached out and held her fast. “No more chirping, eh? I’ll take you back to the castle if you’d rather not.”

“Why are you always so hateful?” Sansa fumed, wriggling out of his grasp. “Leave me be!”

“You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when I’m all that stands between you and your beloved king,” the Hound snarled, his face mere inches from her own. Staring into his eyes, she saw fear, passion, and a warmer sentiment she had never seen in the man. Flustered, Sansa tried twisting away from him but Sandor gripped her waist tightly, the movement bringing her flush against his body.

Light headed and flushed, Sansa felt inexplicably weak and small in his arms, and remembering Shae’s words, she relaxed against him, sighing heavily. Startled, he stared into her face questioningly but did not move away from her.

Leaning in, Sansa daringly cupped his cheek. “I am already grateful, Sandor. Forgive my foolishness. Please, let us look about the festival together, not as a highborn and sworn shield, but as, well, friends.”

Smirking, he shook his head. ”Friends? Is that what you want to be, little bird-my _friend_?” Sandor gripped her chin tightly. “I don’t have friends.”

Puzzled, she innocently asked, “Why not?”

Frowning, the scarred man seemed taken aback by her question.  After studying her face for mockery, he quietly rasped, “Don’t need anyone but myself and my steel.”

Shrugging, Sansa cautiously looped her hand through his arm. “Well, let us pretend if only for today. It will be a game just between us. What say you?”

“Aye if it will stop your chirping,” he growled, pulling heavily on his wineskin as he warily surveyed the men in the crowd. “You best pretend to be more than a friend, lass, if you hope to avoid trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked nervously, wondering what he saw in the men that she did not.

“No man is going to let a pretty thing like you pass him by unless he believes you belong to another, _bigger_ man,” Sandor’s mouth pulled into a devilish smile.

“Oh,” Sansa whispered weakly. “Well, then, have you a handkerchief?”

“Aye what of it?”

“Here, let me have it, please, and I will show you.”

After Sandor gave it to her, Sansa folded it into an envelope-sized square. Turning away, she placed it inside the bodice of her gown. “Shae told me the Lysenes wear wedded favors,” the young woman explained, blushing clear to her chest at the sight of his shocked expression. “Your handkerchief will do nicely.” Pointing to the rainbow colored tents surrounding them, Sansa took his large hand in her own and squeezed it reassuringly. “In this way, I can keep us both safe. Now, let us explore the riches of the festival as husband and wife.”


	3. Chapter 3

_When did the pretty little bird stop fearing me?_ The scarred man wondered, looking down at the beautiful girl walking hand in hand with him. Never had a woman done such a thing, not even the well paid women whose company Sandor sought in Baelish’s brothels; yet here was Sansa Stark, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, holding his hand and chattering on as though they were indeed man and wife.

Sansa was far more beautiful than he had ever seen her in the gown Tyrion’s kept woman had given her. Her bright blue eyes glittered deep sapphire and the color of her attire set her hair ablaze. As she strolled alongside him, her abundant curves gracefully swayed with every step. To his dismay, the sight made his blood boil, his cock harden and many an admiring eye turn to watch her walk by. Though his face was covered by a heavy black cowl, Sandor still managed to stare down any who dared more than a passing glance at her.

Up until Sandor laid eyes on her at the festival, he was still undecided as to whether he would follow through with the Imp’s request. However, once Sansa wrapped her small soft hand around his own and smiled at him, it was the first time he saw happiness reach clear up to her eyes. In that very moment, Sandor made up his mind he would take her away with him, no matter the danger, no matter the cost. After he made the necessary arrangements, he then met up with Shae and Bronn.

When he first considered the possibility of leaving with her, Sandor fully expected Sansa would not easily go along with the idea but now he was not so sure. Against all odds, as they took in the sights, the young woman began to laugh easily and genuinely seemed to enjoy his company. _Perhaps it would be not so difficult a thing after all,_ he thought to himself, watching her laughingly drinking from his wineskin.

When Tyrion called him into his solar two days past, Sandor was ready for a fight. His little shit of a nephew had been pushing him too far as of late, and the Imp caught him glaring at him on more than one occasion. Well, Sandor was fed up with the lot of them. Despite the oft-repeated sentiment that since he was not a landed knight, he had no money of his own, Sandor had plenty of coin saved up from years of gambling and tourney winnings. If not for the little bird, he would have lit out of King’s Landing months ago. Something about the young woman called to him, however, and made him want to protect her as best he could and so against his better judgment, he stayed.

“Clegane, do sit down.”

“I’d rather stand," Sandor growled low. "What do you want, Imp?”

“Not one for small talk, I see,” Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Let us speak plainly: My nephew has grown tired of the Stark girl and aside from tormenting her, he has lost all use for her. You saw how indifferent he was during the riots.”

Shrugging, Sandor looked out the window. “Not my place to question the king.”

“Yet you went after her without any orders from him.”

“Aye.”

“It seems for all your brutality, you have a measure of principle, unlike your somewhat less charming brother.”

Sandor gritted his teeth at the mention of Gregor but managed to remain silent.

Tyrion continued: “Stannis is bringing the war to Joffrey in three days hence.  I do not need to tell you what that means for us and for the castle. Sansa’s mother and brother will not hesitate to kill Jaime should any harm come to her.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Sansa’s Stark best chance for survival is to get out of King’s Landing and the sooner the better, but you and I both know that Joff and Cersei will never allow that to happen.”

Grunting, Sandor nodded, wishing he would get to the point.

“Her handmaiden Shae informed me that Lady Sansa wishes to attend the Festival of Swans; I mean to see she is afforded the opportunity.” Tyrion set four large bags of coin on the table and pushed them toward him. “What I want, Clegane, is for you to dress as a civilian, watch over her, and if there is an opportunity for you two to head north…” Tyrion held up his hands and shrugged, “then so be it.”

Staring long and hard at Tyrion, Sandor wondered if the Imp meant it as a test of loyalty. After a moment’s hesitation, he warily answered, “Even if I agreed to do this, the little bird will never go with me,” Sandor muttered full of loathing, the man remembering the many occasions he scared her. “She still can’t bear to look at me.”

“I know you find her naïveté annoying, Clegane, but Sansa is a sweet girl. You are not used to your um, _women_ , being so refined as she is. Sansa is a highborn and she will mind you if only you would stop snarling at her,” Tyrion shook his head. “Most men would gladly trade places with you-I know Bronn would.”

“Fuck that little shit of a sellsword,” Sandor sputtered out, unable to contain his fury. The little bird’s innocence did not annoy him; on the contrary, Sandor found Sansa maddeningly arousing. Indeed, it was her reluctance to accept the true danger of her situation among the lions that aggravated him to the point of distraction, not her innocent ways. After many months of observing her, Sandor was fascinated by the curious blend of woman and child within the young woman. The very idea that the swarthy sellsword set his designs on his little bird infuriated him.

To his annoyance, Tyrion feigned surprise and then chuckled.  “You must make her trust you, Clegane. If she stays here, she will not survive. Her life and by extension, the life of my brother Jaime, depends upon her escape. Will you do it?”

“I’ll do it, but not for you,” he snarled. “Not for your brother. I’ll not do it for coin, either.”

Tyrion heaved an exasperated sigh. “I figured you would say as much. Gamble with me for it, will you? I cannot return this to the treasury without explanation to Baelish, and that is a conversation I would rather not have, thank you.”

Save for killing and fucking, there was nothing Sandor liked better than beating the Imp at cards. “Aye I’ll give you one deal.”

From the desk drawer Tyrion retrieved a set of playing cards. “Five card draw, the Stranger is wild.” Slowly his fat fingers peeled off the cards one at a time. “I’ll show my hand first.”

Sandor leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “I got you beat, Imp.”

“Not so fast Clegane; we’ve played enough that I know better than to hand over my money without insisting you show your hand.”

One by one, Sandor laid down his cards. “Warrior, Maiden, Stranger, nine of swords, ten of dragons.”

“A royal flush,” Tyrion pushed the coin towards him. “Lucky dog.”

Smirking, Sandor scooped up the bags and stalked out of the room. “I’ll see to it the Stark girl is returned safe to her kin.”

“I had no doubt you would,” he heard Tyrion mutter as he closed the door.

The sound of loud clapping drew Sandor from his thoughts. An elaborately dressed wine merchant clasped Sansa’s hand and exclaimed, “You both are standing under the goldenheart tree! Our custom dictates that lovers kiss under its branches.” When they hesitated, he continued, “You Westerosi men are so cold! It is that queer religion you practice. Your Lysene wife surely is not. Go on, then, man, don’t be shy.”

Sansa dipped his head to her. After nuzzling him softly, she then removed the cowl from his face and tenderly brushed her lips over his. Unable to resist, Sandor pulled her flush against him and deepened the kiss. He fully expected her to recoil but she only squeaked out her surprise, the sound mellowing into a small contented sigh as he deepened the kiss further.

Her fingers ran through the length of his hair before he felt her pull him closer still. The crowd cheered, and flushed, Sansa finally released him and smoothed down her gown. _If I didn’t know better I would think she liked kissing the old dog._ Smugly Sandor settled her on her feet and covered his face once more, the man restraining himself from kissing her further with great difficulty. He was pleased to see Sansa dazedly smiling up at him, a pretty flush of desire coloring her cheeks.

"Excellent! Well done, ser!” The wine merchant handed Sansa a long albatross feather of pure white. “Such a kiss at the festival means good luck will follow you from this day forward.”

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa beamed, twirling it between her fingers.

“Bugger that,” Sandor growled low, tossing the man a coin as he led a giggling Sansa away.

Once they were out of sight, Sansa whispered, “Please don’t be angry. I did not know what else to do.”

Puzzled, he stared at Sansa, detecting the worry that now etched her lovely face as she adjusted his cowl nervously. “Angry?” Sandor chuckled, pulling her into his arms once more. “Only a fool would turn down a kiss from you, little bird. Might be I’ll want another.”

A pleased expression lit up her face, gratifying Sandor immensely. “I will gladly give it…I liked it very much,” Sansa whispered scandalously, then clasped her hand over her mouth.

Shaking his head, Sandor cupped her face in his hands and slowly caressed her luscious full lips with the pad of his thumb. Gently she softly kissed it and smiled up at him, her huge blue eyes twinkling merrily. “As innocent as you beautiful, lass. Come, there is a beach not far from here I want to show you.” Eagerly Sansa nodded and allowed him to lead her to a secluded alcove on the beachhead of Blackwater Rush.


	4. Chapter 4

Standing with her back to the late afternoon sun, Sansa took a modest sip from his wine skin, a shy smile playing across her lips. At once serenely beautiful and daring, she resembled the carefree young girl Sandor first admired in Winterfell. Wishing she could always be thus, Sandor determined that if managed to succeed in convincing her to go with him, he would spend his life making sure she knew only happiness. No matter the cost, though, he would not force her; the little bird already had enough people moving her around like a cyvasse piece. Sandor would be damned if he would become one of them.

Casually looping her arm through his, Sandor reluctantly tore his eyes away from her face and led her to the rocky beachhead of Blackwater Rush.  The long line of swan ships drifted slowly up the tributary with their large white sails billowing in the late afternoon wind. Squealing in delight, Sansa sank to her knees, lifted a handful of pure white sand and watched the fine grains slowly sift through her slender fingers.  “Isn’t it beautiful? Come Sandor, you must join me.”

Smirking, he shook his head and settled beside her, wondering if it was the wine or just girlish enthusiasm flushing her cheeks.  Sansa slipped off her sandals and turned her face up to him. “Sandor, it is so beautiful here and so few people are about. However did you find this place?”

“Scouting possible locations where Stannis’ troops are likely to make landfall,” Sandor shrugged, tracing his finger in the damp sand.

Apprehension blighted Sansa’s face. “The Baratheon soldiers will be coming soon, I suppose.”

“Aye, they will.” Sandor agreed, staring out at the water. “Stannis isn’t one for giving up.”

Nudging his shoulder, Sansa leaned closer to him. “Will you fight for Joffrey?”

“He hasn’t asked me yet.”

“I thought you were sworn to his cause.”

“The only cause to which I am sworn is Sandor Clegane, little bird, believe that.”

She looked as though she wanted to speak but instead Sansa knelt on her knees and carefully began shaping wet balls of sand into a large formation. Watching her small hands gracefully molding the sand, Sandor felt as though he had been struck in the chest, leaving a dull pleasant ache where his heart beat beneath his tunic. “What are you building?” He finally asked quietly.

“Winterfell,” Sansa replied with an uneasiness he found both annoying and yet prudent. Shrinking back on her heels, she seemed to expect an admonition.

Chuckling, Sandor grunted, “You needn’t fear telling me the truth, girl.”

Smiling shyly, Sansa beckoned him closer, her face tranquil once more. “Quite right; I should have known better after today. Do you want to help?”

Unable to resist, Sandor leisurely stroked his finger down her shoulder, the man fascinated by her creamy, silken skin glowing pink in the low light of late afternoon. “Aye, if you want.”

Giggling softly, Sansa shivered and moved aside to give him room. “You distract me, ser.”

“I’m no ser, I told you that already.” Sandor hungered for the taste of her, for all of her. Though his mind screamed for him to be cautious, he was ready to throw all restraint aside. “Are you cold, lass?”

“Yes,” she daringly met his eye. “It was not the weather, though, that made me tremble; my reaction was to your touch…it felt good.”

Surprised, Sandor turned and grinned at her, his mind at once imagining far more pleasant ways of making her tremble. Gently he stroked his finger under her chin. Sansa smiled sweetly at him. If he wasn’t careful he would lay her down and take her right in the sand; reluctantly Sandor turned away and then began notching columns on the towers with a small driftwood stick.

Sighing contentedly, Sansa stacked the battlements high around them with care. “Now it is beginning to look like home.” Quizzically she turned to him. “Should we not head back soon? We are bound to be missed.”

Sandor shook his head. “You’ve been kept in that cage far too long, lass. Might as well stay and enjoy the outdoors.”

“Indeed I have been kept hidden away,” Sansa sighed, tentatively laying her head on his shoulder. “It is a trial to one as accustomed to wide open spaces as I am.”

“A wolf is not meant to be caged in a lion’s den.” Slowly he snaked his arm around Sansa’s waist, drawing her into his arms, and to his surprise she snuggled down closer to him.

Sansa blushed. “I thought I was a little bird.”

“You made yourself into a little bird to survive; the wolf lies within you,” Sandor nuzzled into her hair. “I have seen it. So has Joff.”

Smiling sadly, Sansa gently cupped the burned side of his face. “I cannot marry him, Sandor. I wish we did not have to go back. “And I wish…”

“What?” He held her face in his hands.

“I wish to give you another kiss.”

“And why would a little bird like you want to do that?” Sandor snorted, eying her suspiciously. “I’m hardly the knight you’ve dreamt of, lass.”

“To thank you for today,” Sansa smoothed her skirts, her cheeks blazing red. “And for saving me from the mob.”

Biting back his reproach, Sandor remained silent while watching her closely for deception.

“It has been so long since anyone touched me with affection that I had forgotten how much I missed it-that is, until the first time you kissed me.”

 _She thought that kiss for the wine merchant was out of affection?_   Puzzled, Sandor drew back to look at her. “Not much affection in that one; that was necessity.”

“I do not speak of today,” Sansa continued, a deep flush spreading down her chest. She glanced sideways at him, waiting for his reply.

 _What in Seven hells does she mean?_ _Has being kept captive addled her mind_? Over the years, he had seen such happen to many a prisoner. Glaring at her, Sandor swallowed his annoyance as he lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “What do you mean, girl? Speak plainly.”

“I…I felt your kiss the day you rescued me from the rioters. Your lips brushed my neck just above her collarbone,” Sansa pointed out the spot and then placed his hand upon it.

 _So she did notice that day_ …Sandor inhaled sharply at the feel of her tender flesh under his calloused fingers. “Did you now?”

“Yes. And I saw fear for the first time in your eyes.”

“Bugger that,” he snorted. “They had me ten to one and not one of them dared take me on. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.”

“You don’t believe that. If you did, you would not have bothered saving me.” Sansa’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your fear was not for yourself but for me. I saw the same look in my father’s eyes the day the king ordered Lady killed.”

He remembered that day-and he remembered Ned's expression as well. Nodding, Sandor drew still closer to her.

“I enjoyed our kiss very much,” Sansa whispered. “But now I wish to kiss you, not out of pretense, but because I want to.” Clearing his throat, Sandor gaped at her, dumbfounded by her newfound forwardness with him. Finally he nodded once more. After a moment's hesitancy, Sansa smiled shyly and pressed her lips to his.

Her maidenly timidity nearly drove him wild with desire, and Sandor could not hold back any longer; growling softly, he pulled her onto his lap and deepened the kiss. Emboldened, Sansa giggled and then sipped lightly on his tongue, eliciting another long moan from him. Sandor fully expected her to pull away but instead she wriggled on his lap, trying to get closer still. With great difficulty he finally broke away from her.

Sansa was breathing heavily, her face flushed with desire and her perfect mouth red and swollen. “Perhaps we can come again next year,” she finally managed, blushing once more under his gaze.

“No, not me,” Sandor rasped while anxiously running his hands over his thighs, willing himself to calm down. “I’m going.”

Alarm contorted her fine features. “Going?”

“The little bird repeats everything she hears. Yes, going.”

Frowning, Sansa abruptly pulled away from him. “Where?”

“Someplace far away from that little shit of a king,” Sandor sniffed, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “And far away from the battle.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, might be, could be,” Sandor gave her a sideways glance, gauging her reaction to his words carefully.

Sansa swallowed hard and began biting her lip nervously.  “So soon, Sandor? I was just getting to know and enjoy you.”

There was no pity, no trite courtesy in Sansa’s words; only genuine affection. Never had anyone said such a thing to him. Her sweet words transformed the dull ache in his chest into deep abiding heartache. Not wanting to give full vent to his feelings just yet, Sandor carefully schooled his face into one of passive interest. “I could take you with me.”

At once Sansa’s eyes darted up to his, cautious and hopeful and so very blue; Sandor feared that if he kept staring at her, he would drown in them. Sansa looked as though she wanted to speak but could not decide whether or not it was wise to give voice to her thoughts. Turning away, he struggled to control his temper as he waited. Gazing out over the shimmering water, Sandor added, “I’ll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?” For a moment he allowed himself to hope she would agree.

“I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey,” Sansa whispered, the words sounding unnaturally forced from her throat. Turning away, she resumed building the sandcastle while resolutely avoiding his gaze.

Infuriated, Sandor gripped her chin and snarled, “LOOK at me!”

“No, I cannot,” Sansa squirmed away from him. “If I do I will not be able to hold back my emotions.”

“Bugger that,” he rasped more softly as he slowly allowed his fingers to roam over her jawline. “Look at me.”

Hesitantly Sansa raised her face to him. At once her eyes filled with tears; she was both impossibly beautiful and yet sadder than Sandor had seen her look since her father was killed. Her disconsolate manner gave him an idea for a new approach.

“Stannis is a killer; the Lannisters are killers. One day Joffrey will kill you just as he did your father if you stay.”

“I know,” Sansa murmured. “Sometimes I wish he had killed me that day-then I would not be alone.”

“No, Sansa,” Sandor gripped her chin firmly. “No more such talk. Say the word, lass, and I will take you with me. Go with me and you will live, you have my word. Say you will come with me.”

“Would that I could, Sandor,” Sansa sobbed out, burying her face in his tunic. Her cheek felt warm even though the fine material and instinctively Sandor pulled her closer to his chest.

“If I went with you, they would hunt you down and murder you as well! I care for you far too much to risk you in such a way. I have lost everyone I have loved…” Sansa bit her lip, looking as though she said too much. After a moment she whispered, "I cannot bear the thought of losing you, too.”

 _Love?_ Stunned speechless, Sandor gaped at her once more.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Sansa traced her finger in small patterns over the top of his knuckles. “I know you care for me as I care for you.”

“Is that what you know, little bird?” Sandor gulped, trying to keep his voice even.

“Yes,” Sansa whispered, her eyes darkening. “I do. The people say love comes in the eyes, and yours have always given away your mood.” Gently she stroked up his arms to his neck, then his cheeks to his temples, staring levelly at him. “Normally they are so very angry and sullen and yet when you look at me, they grow warm, gentle even.”

The fact that Sansa had so easily read him disconcerted the man more than he cared to admit. “Scrape those pretty words right off the stable floor, did you?” Sandor chuckled wryly and turned away, hoping his harsh words would veer her off the dangerous topic.

Sansa determinedly held his face in her hands. “A dog can smell a liar, you once told me. You feel the truth of my words, I know you do.”

“I do, lass; I do,” Sandor whispered against her mouth, crushing his lips against hers as he laid her down in the sand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the last chapter for this story but I will follow up with an epilogue in a few days. Thanks to everyone for your encouraging words!

The fervent intensity of Sandor’s eyes as he made his offer nearly took Sansa’s breath away. Silently the young woman wondered how long he had been planning such a scheme, how long he had wanted to help her, and most of all, how long he had wanted her for himself. When Sansa finally confessed her feelings for him, it seemed that a well of emotion broke loose in the man. After laying her down, he settled himself between her thighs, gently stroking his calloused hands over her skin while kissing her so passionately that desire threatened to carry her away.

Sansa knew that it was not proper, that it was unladylike to be in such a position with a man to whom she was not wedded but everything about Sandor felt so good that she did not care. When she drew up her knees to give him more room, Sansa gasped at the feel of his manhood, hard and thick with need, pressed urgently against her woman’s place. Wriggling beneath him, she tried to move aside to give Sandor more space but only succeeded in rubbing wantonly against him, the intense pleasure bringing a rush of dampness between her thighs. As she moved, a deep satisfied groan came from Sandor’s throat, and he ran his tongue eagerly over the top of her breasts, nibbling along the neckline of her gown.

“Oh, Sandor, I-something is happening to me,” Sansa moaned, unsure of the new sensation.

Sandor reached under her gown and trailed his long fingers up her leg. She trembled as his touched the inside of her thigh and then rested his hand  on her smallclothes. Dipping his finger inside, he chuckled devilishly, the sound deep and seductive. “You’re wet, little bird.”

“Oh, forgive me," she stammered, "I don’t know-“

“Shh, calm yourself,” he kissed her languidly. “It’s normal; it just means your sweet cunt is ready for me.”

“Oh,” Sansa gasped, a deep flush spreading across her cheeks at his vulgar word. She was embarrassed that her body betrayed her desires in such a tangible manner; even more humiliating was the fact that the Hound so easily read the signs of her arousal. “Say you’ll leave with me tonight. Say it.” His breath was hot against her neck and after his words he began suckling the pulse point at her throat.

“Yes,” Sansa moaned, running her fingers through the length of his hair while pulling him closer still. Immediately Sandor’s lips were covering her mouth, his tongue sweeping over her own. She felt like he was devouring her, and she loved it. Another satisfied murmur came from him when Sansa daringly began dipping her hands inside his tunic. “Yes, Sandor, take me with you,” she whispered against his mouth while tracing the muscles on his back with her fingers.

Abruptly Sandor pulled away suddenly and stared hard into her eyes. “Are you certain? Tell me truly.”

“I want to go with you, Sandor. I cannot bear to stay here without you,” Sansa caressed his face. “I do not want to spend another day without you.”

“Little bird, there is something I need to tell you,” Sandor rasped between kisses, the fierce man seemingly unwilling to pull his mouth away from hers. Panting, he rested his forehead against hers, struggling to control himself. “Tyrion wanted me to take you away from here, take you north to your family. He meant to keep it secret from Joffrey and Cersei.”

Confused, Sansa froze beneath him. ““You do not like Tyrion and yet you agreed to take me away at his behest? Why? Was it-was it for the money?”

“No, lass, not for the money.” He gripped her chin and stared into her eyes. “I agreed to do it because I want to get you the fuck out of here once and for all. I want to keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again or I’ll kill them.”

Nodding in relief, Sansa gave him a small smile. "I understand."

“Tyrion suggested it because he believes Jaime will remain unharmed if you are returned to your kin.”

Indignant tears burned Sansa’s eyes. “So this entire day was merely a ruse to get me to go along peacefully?”

“No,” he rasped harshly, gripping her chin. “It was to get you out of the Red Keep, away from the king.  It doesn’t change that I enjoyed being with you-that I want you, gods be damned.”

“But-“

His finger trailed along her jawline, sending delicious shivers of pleasure over her skin. Grinning wickedly, Sandor caressed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Do you want to go with me? Do you want to go back to your family?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I will take you away from here tonight,” Sandor rose to his feet, brushed the sand from his breeches and held out his hand  to her. Slipping her hand into his, Sansa never felt more certain about anything in her life. Excitedly she kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm as he lead her towards the docks.

When they approached the gangway, Sansa turned to him with a frown. “I thought we are going north. Will this swan ship take us to White Harbor?”

“No lass; I said _Tyrion_ wanted me to take you north, the bloody fool of an imp,” Sandor spat on the ground. “We’re leaving King’s Landing but we cannot venture north just yet.  It is far too dangerous.”

Slowly Sansa nodded her head. “Yes, with the war and hunger and disease; it may be better to wait to make the journey home.”

“A pretty young thing like you would draw too much attention.  I cannot take on all of the outlaws we're like to encounter for you.”

“Outlaws?” Sansa had not thought of that.

“Yes, outlaws,” he snorted. “The so-called Brotherhood Without Banners, Gregor’s men-just to name a few. Fuck, I’d sooner avoid Gregor himself, Tywin Lannister and his men-Westeros is crawling with the scum of the earth. We could not go to Winterfell anyway, little bird, at least not yet; your father’s ward Theon Greyjoy holds Winterfell now.”

Sansa’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “Yes, Joffrey told me the Ironborn had taken it with his help.”

“We would never make White Harbor anyway; Stannis’ fleet is setting up a blockade as we speak. He will attack the city in a few days hence.”

Sansa frowned and worried her lip.

“I have no intention of taking you anywhere the Lannisters will look for you,” Sandor tilted her face up to him. “We are going to the Summer Isles. One day when this gods forsaken war is over, I’ll take you to Winterfell,” he drew his sword and knelt before her. “I’ll keep you safe.” When she stood staring at him, Sandor irritably added, “I’ve never vowed a bloody thing in all my life but I vow this to you, Sansa.”

“Truly?” Sansa smiled at him, relief spreading across her face. “That eases my mind greatly. Tell me: how will we get there?”

“I hired a crew to take us on one of these swan ships before I found you at the festival. No one will be the wiser.”

“No one will be suspicious of us?” She glanced around at the other passengers climbing aboard, none of whom so much as raised their eyes to the pair.

Laughing, the Hound shook his head. “Let’s just say it’s a ship whose entire passenger manifest consists of people paying a high sum to avoid attention. We’ll fit right in. Just to be safe, I’ll keep my face hidden and we’ll stay in our quarters for the duration. Do you trust me?” Sandor’s eyes searched her face, his deep gray gaze desperate, pleading, and hungry for her response.

Taking his face into her hands, Sansa tenderly kissed him. “I trust you, Sandor. Let us leave this place and all that happened to us behind.”

Once aboard, Sandor cantered Stranger into the holding bay. Settled into their quarters the couple supped as they watched the full moon rise over Blackwater Rush. That night was the first of many Sansa would spend in Sandor’s arms. Safe and secure, Sansa fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and for the first time, the young woman dreamt of spring.

The End

Epilogue to follow :D


	6. Epilogue

 

After spending a moon’s turn touring the Summer Isles, the couple settled in the hill country of Stone Head, the northernmost island in the chain. Sandor began calling himself Erryk while Sansa took the name Sara after his departed sister. With his winnings Sandor purchased a small manse set deep in the hillside with plenty of acreage for cultivating grapes.

Contented to be free at long last, Sansa eagerly scrubbed, polished and decorated their new abode into a warm, inviting space. As for Sandor, it was as close to a real home as he had ever experienced and he guarded both his property and Sansa from the curious local population with a violent jealousy that was soon the talk of the neighborhood.Though they lived together, posed as husband and wife and even shared a bed, Sandor would not take her, the man fearing he would get her with child.

Eventually Sandor hired cultivators to teach him the art of makingsweet amber wine as a means of income. After the local people taught Sansa the Summer tongue, she stubbornly insisted that Sandor allow her to contribute to their living expenses by working as a seamstress for the local highborn women. After much debate, Sandor agreed and gave her a pair of pretty talking birds as a peace offering, explaining she could use their naturally shed feathers to adorn the gowns she brought to market.

Occasionally when money ran low, Sandor would disappear for a week or more, returning with a large purse after each absence. Believing him engaging in mercenary work, Sansa worried extensively while he was gone and devoted the time they were separated to praying to the old gods and the new for his safety.

One day Sandor returned bearing the large jointed branch of a weirwood tree. At the familiar sight Sansa sobbed tears of happiness, all the while clinging to the precious wood. “It is lovely but far too warm to grow here, my love. Wherever did you get it?”

“Where have all your refined ways disappeared to, little bird?” Sandor scoffed, skillfully evading the question. “Don’t you recall being taught that it isn’t polite to ask people where the gifts they give come from? What would your septa say?”

“Oh, yes, quite right,” Sansa laughed and smiled up at him, tenderly kissing his cheek. “Forgive me; my manners have all but disappeared, it seems.”

“I prefer you not chirping, lass.” Sandor needled her. That evening after Sansa went to bed, Sandor carved a face into the weirwood with the Valyrian blade he won from Lord Baelish, and in the morning when she awakened, he surprised her yet again.

“Sandor it is so very beautiful!” She cried out, hugging him tightly.

Shrugging, Sandor grinned at her. “I thought mayhap you could pray to it, if you’re still inclined to such devotions.”

“Oh, yes, my love, it is a wonderful idea!” Sansa beamed at him. When she bowed before it in prayer, a trickle of blood red sap began running from the carved face, giving it the appearance of shed tears.

“What in the-“Sandor growled, examining the weirwood branch with a frown. As he was about to throw it in the fireplace, Sansa stilled his arm.

“Sandor, it is a blessing from the old gods!” Taking him by both hands, Sansa then knelt before him, a shy smile playing across her lips. “Sandor, I want to belong to you for true. I want you to be my husband.” Worriedly she took in his stony demeanor. “What say you, dearest? Will you marry me?”

Angrily he leapt to his feet. “You don’t bloody well know what you’re saying, woman!” Sandor snarled over his shoulder as he abruptly stormed out of the room, leaving Sansa in tears.

Later he sheepishly returned, full of apologies but still reluctant. “Have you considered what it will mean for you to join yourself to me? What it will mean for you to give me your maidenhead-what it will mean when we return to your family as husband and wife?”

Sighing, Sansa sat down beside him. “The girl who cared about such nonsense is long dead, Sandor; I thought you knew that by now. The woman you see before you only longs to be your wife.”

“But what of your claim?”

Sansa waved her hand, interrupting him. “I do not want to hear about claims, maidenheads, arranged marriages and the like ever again, please, Sandor! What good did any of that ever do me or my family? No, I left all of that behind me the day we sailed for the Summer Isles.”

Sandor silently regarded Sansa. “My love, I will never again worry what others may think, and I will no longer sing for anyone other than you. Our life is here; we have found a measure of peace, happiness and love here-that is all I need.”

Choking back his emotions, Sandor offered his hand to her. “Then be my wife, Sansa;  let us say our vows before the weirwood branch right now.”

After they wed, Sandor and Sansa stayed in bed for a fortnight making love, laughing and caressing each other tenderly, the couple only reluctantly leaving the comforts of their rooms to eat and bathe. When Sansa grew too tender to continue their lovemaking, Sandor soothed her with his mouth and tongue until she cried her release over and over again, until she whispered that she was sated and that no matter how much she loved him, her body could take no more of his ministrations.

Afterward, Sansa took it upon herself to learn how to use her mouth on him, sending Sandor to the Seven heavens with a new way of loving him. Grudgingly he went back to work when their supplies ran low but the man continued to take her whenever the mood struck him, grateful to have her all to himself at long last.

* * *

A year later, news of the Red Wedding reached them via a travelling merchant. Distraught, Sansa stayed abed for three days, refusing to eat or sleep. Sandor stayed  by her side holding and comforting her. On the fourth day, however, he made her get up with him. “Enough of this now.”

“No, leave me be,” Sansa grumbled from beneath the covers.

“Damn it, I will do no such thing,” Sandor growled a bit harsher than he intended. “You need to get up and go back to living, wife.  The world will not stop because your heart is broken.” Moving beside her, Sandor took her face in his hands. “I need you.”

Reluctantly Sansa agreed. They held a small memorial before the weirwood branch, which miraculously managed to thrive on their property. After much grieving, the two fell back into their usual routine.

Winter came to Westeros with a vengeance not long after: news of war, dragons, the conquests of the Targaryen princess and the return of the Others reached them via corsairs and wine merchants. Despite it all, Sandor and Sansa remained untouched in the peaceful oasis they built with each other on Stone Head.  

After two years of marriage, Sansa met Sandor out in the field late one afternoon. “Why is it that you never spend yourself inside me?”

Stunned by her blunt speech, Sandor stammered, “You want to talk about our marriage bed now?”

Folding her arms, Sansa stared into his face, a stubborn expression clouding her lovely features. “Yes.”

Slumping down on a fallen log, Sandor ran his hand over his face with a groan. “It’s not a safe time to have a child, Sansa, I thought you understood that-“

“I do not want to hear about that,” Sansa’s lower lip quivered. “There may never be a safe time in this life, Sandor, and I no longer want to be treated like a prostitute by my own husband.” Her façade fell, and Sansa tearfully cupped his cheek. “I love you and I cannot wait for a family any longer. I want a child, Sandor, I ache for it. I want _our_ child.”

Nodding slowly, Sandor quietly led her back into the manse and made love to her the rest of the night. Nine months later, they were blessed with a daughter who Sansa named Catya, combining the names of her mother and sister.

* * *

One day after Daenerys Targaryen conquered the mainland of Westeros, a mysterious man dressed in elaborate robes arrived at the manse. Sandor recognized him instantly. “How the fuck did you find us, Spider?” He growled, holding a knife to his throat.

“Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark as I live and breathe,” Varys’ said calmly, though his eyes betrayed his fear of the Hound. “I did not expect to see the two of you ever again.”

“We may be the last two people you ever see,” Sandor hissed.

“I am Sansa Clegane, Lord Varys,” Sansa glared at him. “Why have you come here after all this time?”

“I am sent by Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

“I want nothing to do with her, Lord Varys or the game of thrones. I left that behind me. All Sandor and I want is to be left in peace.”

“I feared you would say such, my lady, and I told the queen you had good reason to be reluctant to trust me. She understands your hesitance and desires me to tell you that your brother wants to see you.”

“My true born brothers are dead,” Sansa replied bitterly. “And knowing how brave dearest Jon was, I had no expectations that he survived the Great War against the Others.”

“No, my lady, that was misinformation. Your brothers live.”

Warily Sandor turned loose of the man. “You’d better not be fucking with my wife, Spider, or I promise you will beg the Stranger to take you before I’m finished with you.”

“Lady Sansa, your younger brothers were kept hidden by a Wilding woman, a simpleton and Jojen and Meera Reed during the war,” Varys hurriedly replied. “Your sister Arya is also alive and living in Braavos.”

Agape, Sansa stared at him with all her might. “Arya, Bran and Rickon are alive? Are you certain?”

“Yes my lady.”

“And Jon?” Searching his eyes, Sansa clutched his hands in her own. “What news of him?”

“He survived the war, my lady, and his true parentage revealed that he is not your bastard brother. Jon Snow is in fact your cousin, and is also nephew to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa’s mind raced. Vaguely she recalled hearing whispered rumors claiming her Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen had a child together-could it be that Jon was the product of their union?

“My aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen had a son?”

Varys nodded.

“Why did Father never say as much?”

“It was the greatest secret in the kingdom, my lady, meant to keep your brother safe. You witnessed firsthand what Joffrey did to Robert’s bastards-well, all but one, that is.” Varys shook his head. ”Knowing Robert as he did, Lord Eddard could not risk revealing Jon’s true parentage. Before his execution, he entrusted me with this letter and commanded it given to his children at the appropriate time.”

Sandor snatched the sealed scroll from Varys’ hand. “It bears Lord Eddard’s seal, lass.” Together Sansa and Sandor sat down and read the contents of the letter while Varys watched them closely. When they finished, he addressed them. “It is time for you to come home, Lady Sansa. The wolves are once again returning to Winterfell. You will have safe passage, the queen has sworn it.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but this is all quite extraordinary. Please, allow us the night to discuss it and we will give you our answer on the morrow.”

Bowing, Varys nodded. “I thought you might need some time. I will return in the late afternoon.”

Sandor and Sansa talked over the matter until the early hours of the morning, and when Varys returned, they told him they would travel to Winterfell as Jon requested.

For six moons, Sansa, Sandor and Catya stayed in the north with the reunited Stark clan, sharing their experiences during their separation and healing the wounds of the past. The family was quite contented together and Sandor believed eventually Sansa would tell him she wanted to stay in Winterfell for good.

One fine warm spring morning, Sansa led Sandor and Catya out onto the moors in the highlands above Winterfell. “I love being here, Sandor, you know that. But this is not _our_ home, my love-we are Cleganes and we belong in Stone Head. I know it is quite modest compared to Winterfell but nevertheless I long to return to our simple life there; what say you?” Eagerly Sansa searched his face.

Sandor could hardly believe his ears but he readily agreed; the man both proud and pleased that the little bird he freed so long ago was now willing to spread her wings and make her nest permanently with him. “Aye, Sansa, we’ll return home as soon as you are ready.”


End file.
